Friday, December 9, 2016

     Mr. Wonderful tells people he married me and my hair. Yup. It’s true. My hair took on a life of its own shortly after my fourth birthday. You see, I had none until then. Nope. I was completely bald. As the hairs grew in, they multiplied rapidly, and by the age of seven, I had enough for at least three people. This trend continued until I retired 11 years ago. In the past two years, however, the little suckers are dropping like flies. There seems to be a trail everywhere I go. At this rate, I should be bald by next Thursday. My hair stylist assured me that we grow 4721 hairs per day, so I shouldn’t worry. Yeah, easy for her to say. 

     As I look around at women over the age of 60, I see many bald spots. This terrifies me, as my hair is  part of my identity. It serves many purposes besides framing my rapidly creasing face. I can hide behind my bangs when I’m feeling shy. I can stuff it all into a chic beret when I’m too lazy to wash it. I can pull on it when I’m behind slow drivers. I can flip it back with my hand when I’m trying to act superior. I can put it in pigtails when I’m dressing up for Halloween. I can take a wad of it and put it on his pillow when he’s kept me up all night with his snort and snores. Yes, my hair is a part of me I choose not to let go. Alas, do I have a choice?

      I have tried Biotin, Rogaine, and I’m thinking about Rapid Gro Fertilizer. I’m desperate. There’s always hair extensions, but those would extend my budget into the 22nd century, and I’ve got to save for the “Home.” Any advice for getting to the root of the matter?

     *Ah, to look like this. I would give up every follicle.